


The Constellations Make You

by Buttsuoka_Rin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Appreciation, Drabble, M/M, Sherstrade, Waking Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttsuoka_Rin/pseuds/Buttsuoka_Rin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a work of art to Lestrade, his very own Statue Of David complete with moles scattered like constellations around his body; stars usually hidden by his clothes, yet on display for Lestrade's eyes only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Constellations Make You

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta'd. Mistakes are mine. I don't know exactly what this is.

Sherlock has muscle.

It isn't _obvious_ muscle, but it's there; it is slight and yet it suits the younger man to a tee. 

That, and the unusually silky plains of his skin, is what Lestrade like most. He likes the feel of it under his fingers, the subtle dips and paths as he created his own pathway up his chest. He likes to splay his hand and feel the ridges of Sherlock's collarbones beneath his palm, slide it down until he feels the steady thrum of his heartbeat pulse through.

Sherlock is a work of art to Lestrade, his very own Statue Of David complete with moles scattered like constellations around his body; stars usually hidden by his clothes, yet on display for Lestrade's eyes only.

Sherlock's face is a masterpiece in its own right. His lips, luscious and full and soft, marked with the faintest of scars. His eyes are a wonderful amalgamation of grey and blue and green. His hair, wild and splayed across the pillow like a halo, yet perfectly smooth if lestrade were to run his fingers through it.

Of course, even the immaculate Sherlock Holmes has his flaws. There are another set of constellations that mark his skin, fading but still visible, track marks that dance up his arm into the junction of his elbow; they are memories of a darker time - a time when Sherlock needed Lestrade most.  
No... they are not flaws. Not exactly. They are the beginning of Sherlock, of who he was, who has turned into, and who he will become. 

 

It's so very seldom that Lestrade wakes before Sherlock, so he takes his time to appreciate what he has before him, the younger man looking so peaceful; soon he will wake, and his mind's gears will start to kick in, start to turn consistently in his intricate brain until sleep coaxes him in or exhaustion grasps him.

But not yet. For now he sleeps, and Lestrade smiles because he loves him. He loves his skin, his muscle, the blemishes that make him the man he is today. He loves his hair and his eyes and his mind. Lestrade loves everything about him.

For a while it is silent. There is not a sound except for Sherlock's slow and steady breathing, and then eventually a rustle of sheets. Lestrade is so distracted that for a moment he doesn't register this. Nor does he register the hand suddenly covering his own. He blinks, snapping out of his daydream, and his eyes soften immediately.

Sherlock yawns.

Lestrade grins and says, "Good morning Sunshine."

And Sherlock smiles back.


End file.
